


Covet

by mirawonderfulstar



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Drunken Confessions, Fluff and Angst, M/M, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-08-03 11:19:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16325219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirawonderfulstar/pseuds/mirawonderfulstar
Summary: "Aziraphale, little good though it did him, wanted desperately. He wanted with an urgency that scared him. He wanted wine, and cocoa, and the occasional tea. He wanted gravlax with dill sauce, and Pappardelle Bolognese, and those awful little iced biscuits they had at Tesco at Christmastime. He wanted dinners at the Ritz and long walks in the park and late nights in the back room of his shop. He wanted Crowley. Fervently, achingly, he wanted Crowley."





	Covet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thecoquimonster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecoquimonster/gifts).



> Written for thecoquimonster who has been saying (rightfully) for days how much she wants more pining!Aziraphale fic to exist in the world.

Aziraphale was acutely aware how unpopular he was with other angels.

It had more or less always been that way. Ever since he’d first set foot on Earth they’d treated him differently. Probably had something to do with the fact that the first thing he’d done down there was give away a holy weapon to a mortal woman. The others just couldn’t understand that, that desire to help that had driven what would come to be a defining choice in Aziraphale’s time on Earth.

Other angels didn’t understand desire, really. That was the problem. Aziraphale had thought privately, once or twice, that the way to sort the whole thing out would be to get everybody from either side to walk on the face of the world they wanted to destroy, to force them to live in it and see it as something more than just some massive chessboard. To give them food and drink, and a soft place to lie down under a beautiful blue sky, and a good book to read. He’d never, ever dared to say any of this aloud to the only person who would have listened, because Crowley would have laughed and told him it was nice to imagine everyone wanted small comforts like that, but that it simply wasn’t the way they _were_. Ethereal or occult beings or humans, either. Crowley would have said that most people, regardless of origin or influence or side, were more complicated than that. And he would have been right, of course. But it didn’t stop Aziraphale from wanting, sometimes.

Because Aziraphale, little good though it did him, wanted _desperately_. He wanted with an urgency that scared him. He wanted wine, and cocoa, and the occasional tea. He wanted gravlax with dill sauce, and Pappardelle Bolognese, and those awful little iced biscuits they had at Tesco at Christmastime. He wanted dinners at the Ritz and long walks in the park and late nights in the back room of his shop. He wanted _Crowley_. Fervently, achingly, he wanted Crowley.

He couldn’t have said where it started, the first time he’d looked at the demon with something other than an odd mix of annoyance and affection. Maybe he’d been looking since the Beginning, or at least, since they’d bumped back into each other after Abel had been killed and Aziraphale had been sent back down to Earth to sort out what had happened because he had the most experience with humans. Aziraphale couldn’t remember what Crowley had looked like at the time, which seemed to indicate that the wanting had come later—after all, Aziraphale reasoned, thinking of romantic stories and love-at-first-sight meetings in fiction, surely if he’d wanted Crowley from then, that first human body would be burned in his mind like a brand.

No, it had been more subtle and cumulative than that. Crowley had slowly grown in Aziraphale’s esteem until one day he’d found himself thinking about the flash of his throat under the dark high-collared shirt he usually wore, the way his eyes caught the light on the rare occasions Aziraphale had seen them exposed and not hidden away behind glasses. That moment, the moment where it crashed in on him suddenly that maybe he’d been looking for longer than he cared to admit, Aziraphale _did_ remember.

It had been just around the turn of the first millennium. Well, no, not the _real_ first millennium. The first millennium, AD. One thousand years after the birth of Christ, give or take. They’d been sitting at a bar in Mecca, talking about the caliph. Crowley had finished complaining about somebody or other that he’d been having a hard time with recently. He’d moved to brush his hair out of his eyes and Aziraphale had frozen. The rings on his fingers, and the dark hair worn just slightly too long framing his face, and the way his breath had come out of him in a sigh, and Aziraphale was caught up in a moment of perfect recall of every other time he’d ever stared too long at Crowley’s cheeks or lips or eyes or any part of him, really, as all at once it hit him that he wanted Crowley more than he’d ever wanted anything else in his life.

He’d excused himself in a rush and retired to his room above the tavern, where he lay in his bed and stared up at the ceiling, his thoughts racing. Aziraphale had always indulged in physical pleasures, it was one of the things he’d long ago learned how to make excuses for, but this… this was something different. It was all well and good to enjoy a drink with your demon friend. It was another thing entirely to think of a demon in the way Aziraphale was doing now, in the privacy of the dark.

Aziraphale let out a long breath, swearing quietly. It was wrong. Thinking about Crowley the way he was doing was _wrong_. Crowley was… Crowley was his friend. Yes. Crowley was his friend, and it wasn’t right for him to be imagining the way that pretty mouth would feel on Aziraphale’s—

The angel swore again and willed his body, through an effort he didn’t even know he possessed, to behave itself. The remaining alcohol fizzled from his bloodstream as his angelic nature reasserted itself on his corporation, and he let out a sigh of relief.

Aziraphale didn’t sleep often but he slept that night, mostly in the hope that his contemplation of Crowley’s body and his sudden foray into the sin of lust would look ridiculous in the morning. When it didn’t, Aziraphale packed up his possessions and left the city as fast as possible.

The next time they saw each other they had a heated argument about good and evil which somehow concluded in them agreeing that they would like to see a lot more of each other and occasionally help each other out with their respective assignments. The Arrangement had sprung up, and Aziraphale had been both relieved and thoroughly annoyed to discover that the problem hadn’t gone away.

And nearly a thousand years later it still hadn’t. They’d stopped the apocalypse together, stood side by side against certain doom, and it had only served to make Aziraphale feel more hopeless about the whole thing. Crowley was so far out of his reach that it seemed ludicrous to dignify his desire with words even before they’d averted Armageddon, and afterwards… well.

Because the truth was, Aziraphale thought as he took another healthy swig of his drink, Crowley was a much better person than he was. Which of them had spoken up and said the world was worth saving, even though they’d both known it to be true? Crowley. Who had had the idea about the baby (which Aziraphale still maintained would have worked if those nuns hadn’t messed it up—after all, Adam Young had been raised by lovely normal English people and turned out to be a sweet boy) and come up with a plan? Crowley. And always, _always,_ who had insisted humans were better and worse than they all gave them credit for? Who had believed, always, that the world was capable of being so _good_ , even if he could be so cynical about it at the same time? Crowley. Aziraphale had never believed anything like that, would never have even thought about such things if Crowley hadn’t brought them up first.  

It was almost tragic. Crowley wanted so badly to be human, and once upon a time he’d had the potential to be so much more. That, more than anything, should have made Aziraphale realize the kind of unfairness Heaven was capable of. If somebody like Crowley couldn’t have the chance to redeem themself, there was no point. Crowley was so good, despite it all, and Aziraphale was just an angel who was too often a coward.

Aziraphale let out a shaky sigh and laid his head down on his crossed arms, staring across the dimly lit back room of his bookshop. The sun had set, and thanks to Adam Young it would come up tomorrow, and Aziraphale, for the first time in a very long time, felt weary contemplating it. Tomorrow was coming, and another tomorrow after that, and all of them stretched out into forever, and for what?

Bloody… something, he hated when he got like this. Introspection didn’t suit Aziraphale. It made him moody and miserable and often ended in somebody getting killed (or at least, it had in the old days, but a good old-fashioned righteous smiting was rather looked down upon here in the twentieth century). He should just call Crowley, cut off his train of thought before it got going.

The phone rang for a long time before Crowley picked up. “Hi, angel. I’ve just got out of the shower for this, so I hope it’s important.”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale sighed. “Crowleyyy.”

“Angel?” Crowley repeated, his tone even.

“D’you know how important you are to me, Crowley?” Aziraphale sensed, dimly, that he maybe ought to have waited a bit until some of the alcohol had worn off before attempting this conversation, or at least get rid of it. He didn’t. “You’re very important. So important. You’re a good person, my dear, even if you don’t want that to be the case.”

There was silence on the line for several moments. “Right. Sober up, angel, you sound like you’re about to pass out.”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale repeated. “ _Anthony_.” He tried instead, and winced. That didn’t sound right, and Crowley seemed to think so, too, because he let out a nervous sort of laugh.

“Thought you hated that name.”

“I do, actually.” Aziraphale said.

“Right.” Crowley said again. “Well, as interesting as this call has been, I think I’ll get back to—”

“To the shower?”

“Yeah.”

“Want me to join you?”

There was silence again, and then Crowley’s tone changed. “Are you alright, Aziraphale?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Apart from the fact that you never, ever drink alone and you’re trying some line so bad even I wouldn’t use it?” Crowley laughed again, harshly this time. “What’s gotten into you?”

“You.” Aziraphale blurted out, and instantly wished he could take it back. Then—

“I’m coming over there.” Crowley growled, and hung up.

Aziraphale spilled the remaining wine in his haste to get up from the table. He vanished it with a wave of his hand and swore as he looked around, trying to decide what to do. There was nothing. He had nothing. _Sober up_ , part of his mind screamed, so he did, and instantly regretted it as a wave of panic hit him.

He briefly considered running, just going into hiding and letting a decade or two pass before confronting Crowley again, but that would mean he’d have to leave the shop and he had just gotten over the horror of having lost it, however temporarily. And it had been so long since he’d lived anywhere other than London, he sort of suspected he had forgotten how.

Maybe he could just… laugh it off when the demon arrived. He really didn’t fancy getting discorporated but maybe he could make some joke, buy some time. Crowley and he were friends, surely he could play off a drunken pass made a few days after the world hadn’t ended.

Aziraphale might have come up with a better plan if he had more time, but he didn’t, because the front door of the shop had just banged open and bounced off the wall as Crowley came striding in, an expression of determination on his face and his hair still damp.

“Crowley, I can explain—” Aziraphale started, and then his eyes went wide and he stopped, because Crowley had taken his face in both hands and was kissing him like he was the only thing in the whole world at that moment. It was quite overwhelming.

By the time Aziraphale had gotten ahold of himself enough to kiss back, Crowley had pulled away and was watching Aziraphale with an apprehensive expression. “Was that what you wanted?” He said. He licked his lips, and Aziraphale felt something pool, hot and heavy, in his stomach.

“Yes.” Aziraphale said, and surged forward.

The second kiss was just as all-consuming as the first, and the one after that. As they went along Aziraphale learned that Crowley was apparently completely incapable of doing any part of this by halves, and it didn’t take long for them both to work themselves into a state of shivering, delirious arousal. It was, Aziraphale reflected, as they made their way to the couch in the back room, which was both closer and far less dusty than the bed in the apartment upstairs, completely like Crowley, and completely wonderful.

Later, when it was done, and they lay tangled together on the couch, Crowley’s head on Aziraphale’s chest and Aziraphale’s fingers trailing idly along Crowley’s spine, Crowley asked, “Why did you wait so long?”

“I assumed you already knew.” Aziraphale murmured. “Sensing desire, and all that.”

Crowley shifted his head to look at Aziraphale, his rather pointy chin resting on the angel’s breastbone. He looked both hurt and offended. “And I’d always assumed you knew I…”

Aziraphale ran a hand through Crowley’s dark hair. “Then we’ve both been foolish.”

“I’d say so, yeah.” Crowley smirked. “Although you more than me, I think. What was that you were trying to say on the phone? About me being good?”

“You are.” Aziraphale said, very softly. Crowley blushed and ducked his head back down, settling more securely against Aziraphale, his head over the place where the angel’s heart lay.

“I was going to say, earlier,” Crowley murmured, his breath warm on Aziraphale’s skin, “when we were on our way to Tadfield, and you said you could sense the place was loved…” He trailed off.

“Yes?” Aziraphale prompted.

“That’s how it feels here, always has. And I never knew if it was me, or because you’re so happy here buried amidst your books.”

Aziraphale’s heart fluttered, and he was sure Crowley could feel it from where he was laying, because he hissed out a little laugh.

“I’d always wondered,” Aziraphale said slowly, haltingly, still petting Crowley’s hair, “if the forces of Heaven and Hell mightn’t just… call the whole thing off and relax, if they got to experience things like this.”

Crowley did not laugh. He let out a long, contented sigh. “Think you might be right about that, angel.” He said, and closed his eyes.

Aziraphale watched him fall asleep with something tender and possessive blossoming in his chest, opening like a letter or a gift or a long-awaited treasure.


End file.
